The Matters at Mansfield: (Or, the Crawford Affair) (Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (21 page)

The viscount strode over to them. “Is the colonel injured or is he not?”

“He is injured enough that his hand shakes,” Darcy said. “We will have to continue this on the morrow.”

“Why?” he barked. “What difference makes impaired aim if he is only going to shoot into the air?”

“We all know the rules of the Code. A wound sufficient to make the hand shake postpones completion of the duel.”

“The Code also forbids firing into the air. If Colonel Fitzwilliam is not courageous enough to kill me, he should not have issued the challenge.”

“Deloping is common practice, despite that prohibition.”

“If the colonel will not acknowledge that rule, I do not acknowledge the other. We will finish this today.”

“Yes,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Let us.”

Lord Sennex stormed off to exchange his used pistol for the loaded one. Colonel Fitzwilliam handed Darcy his discharged weapon. His hand trembled so badly that he could hardly raise it.

Darcy took the weapon from him, but did not give him the reserve pistol. “You cannot face him in this condition. If his shot does not hit you, your own might.”

“The viscount insists on settling the matter this day.”

“It
will
end today. I shall stand in for you.”

“No,” he said vehemently. “I am the one who issued the challenge.”

“And I agreed to serve as your second knowing full well that I might be required to take your place.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked over at Anne. Her face was pale, her expression grave. “This is my fight.”

“You have fought it bravely and honorably. Now stand down.”

After some minutes’ further argument, the colonel finally agreed. Darcy deliberately avoided looking in Elizabeth’s direction. Likely she was so displeased by this turn of events that if the viscount did not kill him, she might. Colonel Fitzwilliam remained on the field but out of firing range.

Darcy stripped to his shirtsleeves and met the viscount in the center of the field to count new paces. Lord Sennex nearly spat with rage. “Now the colonel will not face me at all? Very well. We shall see whether his second is more manly than he is.”

Darcy cocked his pistol and counted his paces.

And turned to face the viscount’s fire.

Thirty-one

“
I could meet him in no other way.
”

—
Colonel Brandon,
Sense and Sensibility

L
ord Sennex’s shot missed.

Darcy heard the ball whistle past. Then he lowered his pistol, pointing it at the ground.

The viscount stared at him, at first uncomprehending. Then he exploded.

“You refuse to fire
at all
? What is the meaning of this? You call this a duel? This is a farce! I command you to fire!”

Darcy stood still. “My lord, I decline.”

“I said fire, damn you!”

Darcy bowed to his lordship and started to leave the field.

“This is not to be countenanced! How
dare
you insult me in this manner? This is supposed to be a contest of
honor
!”

Darcy met Colonel Fitzwilliam and they continued walking together toward the others. The viscount walked faster. He rushed over to the open case, threw down his discharged gun, and grabbed the small pistol.

“Stop!”

Darcy halted. The viscount had the pistol aimed straight at Darcy’s chest.

He had not foreseen this, and regretted that he had moved so near the spectators. Elizabeth was somewhere behind Lord Sennex—he could not quite see her—but Anne and Colonel Fitzwilliam both stood within the viscount’s range. As, of course, did he.

“Put the weapon down, Lord Sennex,” he said calmly. “The duel is over.”

The viscount was so angry that tremors seized him. He reached up and fully cocked the pistol.

“There were to be
four
shots fired today.” His hoarse voice quavered. “If you will not take the fourth, I shall.”

“My lord, I will not.”

“Very well, then.”

The viscount pulled the trigger. There was a spark as flint struck frizzen, snapping open the pan.

But no explosion.

The pan was empty.

The viscount’s astonished expression rapidly transformed to one of rage. He looked from the useless weapon to Darcy accusingly. With a cry, he advanced, raising the pistol as if to strike Darcy with it.

He stopped suddenly at two sounds from behind him.

A hammer being cocked. And Elizabeth’s voice.

“Hold, sir! I am armed.”

Thirty-two

Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

—Mansfield Park

W
hile Darcy dealt with the viscount, Anne hurried to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Are you—” Anne extended a hand toward the colonel, but stopped short of actually touching him. “Are you seriously injured?”

“I am not.”

She released a shaky breath. “Good—that is—that is good. I was so . . .” A soft cry escaped her. She looked away, struggling to regain her composure.

The surgeon came over to assess Colonel Fitzwilliam, insisting that he sit down. Anne knelt beside him. As the doctor cut away the colonel’s sleeve to better access the injury, the patient had attention only for Anne.

“Are
you
well? Please tell me that Lord Sennex did not—”

“I was quite frightened, but he did not harm me.”

At her assurance, he relaxed, making it easier for the surgeon to tend him. With Anne’s assistance, the doctor staunched the flow of blood and wrapped the arm in a bandage. The wound was in need of stitching, which he preferred to do in his office if the colonel felt himself capable of walking there. Fitzwilliam sent him ahead, saying he would meet him presently.

When the surgeon had gone, he searched Anne’s face. “If any harm had come to you . . .”

“If significant harm had come to
you
. . .” She lowered her gaze. “I—I do not know how I . . .” Her hands moved nervously in her lap, gripping, then releasing, the fabric of her gown.

He regarded her in silence for a long moment.

“Marry me.”

She drew in a sharp breath and raised her head. “Oh, James, you cannot mean that.”

“I most certainly mean it. Marry me.”

She blinked and brought one hand to her chest. “I am so astonished, I do not know what to say.”

He reached for her hand and took it into his own. “Say ‘yes.’ ”

Emotion played across her features as she looked into his face. She nodded. “Yes.” A smile formed, and spread until her eyes were alight. “Yes,” she repeated.

Delight overtaking his own countenance, he gathered her to him and held her tightly with his good arm. “You should know that I already sought your mother’s permission, and she refused it. But now that marriage to the viscount is impossible, perhaps—”

“It does not matter. I am over one-and-twenty. I can make my own choice, and I choose you.”

“She threatened to withhold your funds.”

“I am content to live without them, if you are.”

“I would much rather live with you.” He reluctantly released her. “We will not starve, you know. My father hardly left me destitute. But it is a smaller income than you likely looked forward to.”

“The only person disappointed will be my mother.”

“Can you be happy as a soldier’s wife?”

Another smile overcame her countenance. “I do not deserve this much happiness.”

“Why not?”

Her expression became more sober. “The terrible mistake I made.”

“It is in the past.”

“You say that now.”

“I say it for ever.”

“But Mr. Crawford and I lived together as man and wife, and that cannot be undone. What if I am—”

“Anne.” He took both of her hands in his. “I hope we have a house full of children. And every one of them—
every
one—shall bear the name Fitzwilliam.” He paused. “In fact, marry me now.”

“Before we know?”

“Right here. Today. Unless you would rather not have another Scottish wedding?”

She laughed. “My mother will be furious.”

“I shall defend you. I am now in practice.”

Elizabeth, certain the couple had utterly forgotten the presence of everyone else, tried to discreetly leave the field. Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, stopped her.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought to grant you some privacy in which to continue making your plans.”

“Do not stray far,” Anne said. “It seems that I, too, require a second this day.”

Thirty-three

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest
.

—Mansfield Park

L
ady Catherine was indeed furious about Anne’s second Scottish marriage, but her ire was short-lived. Upon reflection, and a hint from Mr. Archer, she came to consider herself fortunate that any respectable gentleman, let alone one so honorable as Colonel Fitzwilliam, still wanted her daughter. She approved the match, pending solemnization in a proper English church, and within hours convinced herself—and began putting word about—that a marriage between the cousins was entirely her idea. She even recanted her threat to withhold Anne’s trust income. By the day of their “real” (i.e., English) wedding, the couple’s happiness was increased by the knowledge that Anne carried no child of Henry’s, and therefore no reminders or questions to trouble their future. The church bells tolled a fresh start to their life together.

Though the law tacitly overlooked the duel between Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lord Sennex, it could not ignore the viscount’s abduction of Anne, nor the two duels that took place at Mans-field Park. Lord Sennex was charged with kidnapping and the murders of Henry Crawford and Neville Sennex. Before he could stand trial, however, his lordship suffered an apoplectic fit that truly did muddle his mind. He spent the remainder of his days in a world of the past where he was still a vital young man capable of defending his honor against all challenges, insensible to most of the present world around him.

While the Sennexes were responsible for both attacks on Mr. Crawford, it was Mrs. Norris and her propensities for inserting herself into everyone else’s affairs and making free with Sir Thomas’s bounty that led to Mr. Lautus’s demise. The agent’s assassination attempt against Mr. Crawford had an unanticipated witness when Mrs. Norris, walking home from a visit to Mansfield Park, decided to relieve a few favorite wild gooseberry bushes of their harvest. She heard the shot and, exalting in the belief that she was about to catch a poacher, came upon the scene as the agent set down his pistol to rifle Henry’s body. Observing Mr. Lautus from behind, she mistook him for Henry and approached him to demand an explanation of what he was doing. When he turned around, she realized her mistake. He instinctively grabbed the pistol he had just set down, but then, recalling that it was no longer loaded, looked past Mrs. Norris to the cocked but undischarged pistol that had flown from Henry’s hand when he fell.

Mrs. Norris, following his gaze and realizing his intent, reached the weapon first. She shot Mr. Lautus and fled, taking the incriminating pistol with her to dispose of elsewhere. In her terror and the gathering darkness she did not pause to retrieve the other pistol, nor, she claimed, did she realize Henry was still alive. When only one body was found, and it was mistaken for Mr. Crawford, Mrs. Norris thought the man she had shot yet lived and lay in wait to finish her off. She dared not reveal what she knew. Upon Henry’s unexpected return from the dead, she realized she was indeed a murderess after all and tried to dispose of the gun in a location wholly unconnected to her.

Mrs. Norris’s involvement in Mr. Lautus’s death was deemed by Sir Thomas to be an act of self-defense. But the incident so haunted her—or at least, so she told her sister—constantly—that she persuaded herself that only her removal to another country (“preferably one with an agreeable climate, such as Italy”) could quell her unease. Sir Thomas responded favorably to her none-too-subtle hints that he ought to finance said relocation, but only on the condition that she take Maria with her. To the relief of all those left behind, they departed forthwith for the Continent, where living together in exile became mutual punishment for aunt and niece.

Meg continued her employment at the Ox and Bull, her amiable nature helping to draw even more customers, which in turn led to the addition of yet another wing to the sprawling structure. Among the inn’s frequent patrons was Mr. Rushworth. Being sympathetic to the burdens of living with an elderly and oft-times difficult parent, Meg encouraged Mr. Rushworth to dine at the inn whenever business brought him near the village, upon which occasions she distinguished herself as the first person in his life to patiently listen to him. Though Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty obtaining a divorce from Maria, it was nevertheless a protracted process, and during the interval he found increasingly frequent cause to pass through the village, particularly at mealtime.

Eventually, after years of believing herself a sailor’s wife, Meg’s ship came in: She married Mr. Rushworth. What to all the world might seem a highly improbable alliance between a lively but poor girl and a wealthy but proud gentleman was in fact the most sensible match imaginable to the two parties most concerned. Mr. Rushworth had experienced enough of high-born debutantes; what Meg lacked in pedigree and education was more than compensated for by her common sense, unselfish nature, and appreciation for the gift of his regard. For Meg’s part, Mr. Rushworth might not be sharp or witty, but he was steadfast and forthright, and she had experienced enough of charming, silver-tongued gentlemen. Theirs was a felicitous marriage, each valuing in the other the traits so opposite those of their previous spouses.

The dowager Mrs. Rushworth vehemently objected, of course, to Meg’s common origins. But her son was resolute, and after the marriage, the mother’s continued observation of her new daughter-in-law’s prudence, loyalty, and genuine solicitude toward her son eventually won her over. Meg was everything Maria Bertram was not, and in the end fulfilled her domestic duties more capably and faithfully than her predecessor ever had.